Aging Gracefully

Let's just get it out there. I'm 34 years old.  I'm older than my husband, by 3 months, but still.  I have two kids and two degrees. I also have 3 gray hairs.

Now, I don't really feel my age, and neither does my husband. I'm pretty sure we still think we are about 27 years old, except when we hurt our backs from picking up toys. Just today he referred to an "older" lady who might have been 35.   We are almost 35.  35.  We don't really feel like it though.  

I mean, sometimes I feel old, like this New Years Eve. Do I have to stay up until midnight?  After all, the next is my day to get up with the kids, who will still get up at 6:30. 

I also felt old this morning when I looked in the mirror this morning and found 3 gray hairs.  Really, gray hairs?  Where did that come from?  I used to highlight my hair, but then, I had a second kid and really couldn't find the time to get it done.  Seeing this gray in my hair really inspires me get my hair highlighted again, or, at least, make a meeting with Ms. Clairol.  I'll keep you posted.

Putting together this torturous trampoline Christmas Eve

Merry Christmas!

This Christmas I wanted to be a little more organized.  Last year, I felt like we spent Christmas morning cutting through the boxes that held the children's toys all while trying not to sever an artery.  So, this year, to prepare for Christmas Eve, I spent several evenings getting the toys out of the boxes and putting batteries in the toys that needed it.  This way, we wouldn't have stay up all hours of the night, or have our kids cry in frustration waiting to have their toys opened the next day.

Christmas Eve arrives.  After we deal with our son, T, getting out of bed 50 times, we bring the toys downstairs.  All we have to do is wrap a few a put together this trampoline.  I think we might actually be able to get in bed at a decent time.  My husband, Jeff, is in charge of the assembly, and I wrap the gifts.

I spent the next hour wrapping and watching It's a Wonderful Life.  I looked over and watched my husband struggle with various stages of assembly on this forsaken trampoline.  I tried to help him put the little noodle things through the holes during one break (please see the picture for reference).  Nearly impossible.  So, I continued with what I was doing.  After I was finished I made a comment about how much I had gotten done while he seemingly did nothing.  Not smart on my part.  He said that I did not understand his level of frustration right then.

I decided to be a good wife and help my husband with this trampoline.  We spent the next TWO HOURS putting together this stupid trampoline.  Trying to hold the metal pieces stable and fit the bolt through proved near impossible.  The trampoline nearly beat us.  I was ready to either put the trampoline away or leave a note saying that Mommy and Daddy would have to finish putting this toy together at a later date because Santa and Elves broke it.  After, two hours in to the assembly we have the jumpy part of the trampoline together and only on corner of the stand together, thanks to me.

Every time we had to get the bolt through the metal hole, we had to use super human strength to push it through.  Later we chose a hammer or some other tool nearby.  At one point, my husband grabbed the closest thing to him, and he banged the bolt with a rubber, squeaky dog toy.  I nearly died laughing.  Several times during assembly, I was sure one of us was going to end up in the ER with a severed finger.

We kept trying new ways of fitting the parts together, but it required the strength of an Olympian, or, at least, the strength of someone who works out.  After about an hour of getting almost nowhere, we turned to the internet.  By this point we still only had one side together and bent bolt.  The reviews were showing this product was fun and great for kids, but a "little" difficult to put together.  That was an understatement.

While Jeff was looking up new ways to enlarge a metal hole without the proper tools, or straighten a bolt without a vice, I used the rubber band in my hair to hold together one side of the trampoline.  I felt like a genius. While I did this, Jeff somehow managed to straighten the bent bolt.

We hemmed and hawed over this last corner for an eternity.  Brute strength and our tools weren't working Finally, my husband used his belt to tighten the pieces together and fit the final (bent) bolt in.  We both felt like we should have honorary engineering degrees from some redneck school, and we felt like the best parents alive.  We were still debating if this whole toy was worth the three hours to assemble as we sat trying to unwind before we went to bed.

The next morning we dragged ourselves from bed to see what Santa had brought the kids. The trampoline was the first thing T decided to play with.  H, my daughter, loves it too.  I'm so glad they both love the trampoline.  Our struggles of the assembly are slowly fading from my mind, but it was worth it in the end.  Although, if you purchased this I would recommend finding someone else to do the assembly.

My hatred of all things glitter

I think my hatred of glitter began when my mom starting working at a local gift shop.  During Christmas time this store received hundreds of ornaments.  From the time these ornaments were unloaded until the after Christmas sale glitter was everywhere.  (This began when I was home from college, and has not ended.)  Glitter was on tabletops and all over the floor.  Worst of all, glitter was on my mom's face.  All.  The.  Time.  

Now, glitter isn't something you can just brush off.  No, you have to get in the shower, or find some industrial strength tape to remove it from your skin.  I hated always seeing glitter sparkle on my mom's face.  Don't know why, but I do.  And, it wasn't just her face.  It's like a contagious disease.  She brought it home from work and got on everyone who set foot in the house.  Now, it is Christmastime again.  Though I don't see my mom everyday, I know there's glitter on her face.  

And, then, I have friends.  Nice, but, these friends send me Christmas cards covered in glitter.  I know they just like the cards.  Maybe they like glitter.  I'm sure after some of my family and friends read this, they will deliberately sent my glitter cards next year.  But, I digress.  As I open the Christmas card and see the specks of glitter trickle out of the envelope I shift into glitter mode.  I grab the card with my two longest fingernails, open the card to see who it's from, and then place it in the cardholder.  I wipe the glitter from my tabletop and wash my hands.  

It's like a form of torture for me.  Really, just cover me in glitter and I will hate my life.  Cover my children in glitter, and I might consider putting them up for adoption.  

Although it's not a problem now, I'm sure it will be in the future.  I have a daughter.  She is almost one and half.  I'm not stupid.  I've seen the shoes, clothes, and floor of the Disney store.  Glitter is going to happen.  My daughter will want some dress up costume, or shirt, or skirt, or shoes that are covered in glitter.  And, because I love her to death I will probably get them for her and hate my life.  Or, I will pat myself on the back congratulating myself and narrowly missing that one glitter trap.  

For now, I just dread the Christmas cards and their tiny flecks of glitter that stick to every surface in my house.  And, now I won't post a picture of my glitter cards. I don't want to call anyone out.  More importantly, I don't want to have to touch the cards and get glitter on my hands and face.  

Visiting That Fat Man in Red

This year, instead of battling the Santa lines for hours only to spend a rushed 25 seconds with a dirty stranger, we decided to have breakfast the man inside the safety of a local high school.  My nearly four year old couldn't contain himself with excitement.

For the weeks approaching our visit to Santa, I had repeatedly asked my son what he was going to ask Santa for this year. His friends would say one or two toys, but not my son. He wanted everything. "I want everything," he'd say.

No son, it doesn't work that way. Pick one or two things. He finally narrowed it down to a race track (which we now need to get) and the move Planes (great, that's upstairs).  

When we arrived at school, we had to keep my son from running around the school as he searched for Santa.  He nervously walked into the crowded cafeteria.  When he laid eyes on this old man, he ran up to him. That's the beauty of breakfast with Santa. There is little to no line.  

While my son danced around Santa, I scrambled to get my camera out and take the lens off. Since we could take our own pictures, I squeezed as close as I could to the volunteer photographer and his tripod. If he had the best shot, then that's where I wanted to be too. We snapped a couple of pictures of my son alone with Santa.  I never did get to hear what he whispered in Santa's ear.  Was it everything?  Or, the two things we had talked about?  

Meanwhile, my husband prepped my daughter.   At this date, she is almost 16 months old and afraid of strangers. I already had an idea of how this was going to go down.  My husband puts my daughter on Santa's lap, and she is not happy.  I wouldn't be.  Here is a child who doesn't like strangers, and we just give her to a strange man, and LEAVE her with him.  And, being a terrible mom I'm capturing every tortured moment of my daughter's life.  

As I'm taking the pictures, all I can think about is how dirty this guy's suit is.  It's probably covered in germs ranging from the common cold to the plague.  And, how often does he clean this thing?  I mean, it's probably not washable.  So, when does this man have a chance to take it to the dry cleaners?  On his day off?  Probably not.

Lucky for me, my daughter wants nothing to do with this strange man named Santa and his germy suit.  I see her reaching for her Daddy just trying to get away from this guy.  Her brother next to her provides very little comfort.  Finally, the trauma of it all is over for my daughter, and, sadly, over for my son too.

Once I get home, I look through the 50 pictures I took in 45 seconds.  My kids took some decent photos, though never at the same time.  Before we even left the house I knew this would be the year for the crying photo with Santa for my daughter.  Secretly, I was hoping for the hilarious screaming shot, but my daughter disappointed me.  Her pictures won't be seen on the most awful Santa pictures blogs.  But, they can be enjoyed by us.

Merry Christmas.

Minivan Initiation

I've lived in a suburban area my entire life.  My mom drove a minivan, and I swore I would never, ever drive one myself.

When I graduated college in 2001 it was the rise of the SUV.  I decided against one of those gas-guzzlers since I was fresh out of college and didn't yet have a job.  I also didn't want to foot the gas bill.  After all, for the five years previous I had driven a Toyota Tercel that cost $12 to fill up.  I needed something small.  I bought my shiny new Honda Civic and wore that car out.  

Ten years later, I'm in the market for a new car.  My life has changed since college graduation.  I have a husband, two kids, two dogs and no job.  All of the mammals in our house don't fit in my Civic. We barely fit into my husband's Nissan Xterra.  After weighing the pros and cons of SUVs, Crossovers, and Minivans we took the plunge.

We bought a minivan.  I did what I swore I'd never do.  And, I did this with pride and joy.  We purchased a 2012 Chrysler Town and Country Touring edition.  It's a sleek black with black interior.  At first glance, you almost can't even tell it's a van.  Who am I kidding?  Everyone knows it's a van.  But, it's my van.

After years in my Civic, now I have a van.  I can finally reach the drive-thru window at Starbucks!  I have arrived.  I can finally fit my husband, kids, and dogs in the same vehicle.  Although my van doesn't have a DVD player (who needs it with all the tablets and smartphones anyway?), it does have a back-up camera.  Now, I no longer fear hitting a child, dog, or mailbox.

When we got the van I immediately decided she needed a name.  My three year-old son and I decided she should be named Black Betty.  Not very original, but she has her own song, and, more importantly, my son likes the name.

Upon the purchase of Black Betty, my husband swore I was not allowed to put my initials or the little stick families on the van.  I also can't paint "Go #54 of the home team!" in white shoe polish on the windows.  I'm completely fine with that, and against those cliches anyway.

Although, within one week of having Black Betty I found myself in a driving cliche.  The kids and I were on our way to my husband's soccer game (he coaches at a local club).  I donned my stylish brown, knee-high boots, packed the kids in the van and drove off.  I stopped by Starbucks on the way to pick up my Pumpkin Spice Latte (soy milk, please).  As I was talking to my husband through the van's bluetooth, I realized what a cliche I was.  And, you know what?  It was awesome.

I love suburbia.